


He'd been so close

by troubleseeker



Series: kinktober 2018 [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AS TORTURE, Blood, Canes, Crying, Dark, Drowning, Face Slapping, Gags, Hoods, Hurt, Hurt Castiel, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Master/Slave, Medical Procedures, Objectification, Oral Sex, Punishment, Screaming, Slave Castiel, Slavery, Terror, Torture, Trainer Sam, Whips, broken fingers, caning of feet, chapter 2, mentions, mentions of falling, tried to escape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/pseuds/troubleseeker
Summary: kinkotber day 23 -Scars | Master/Slave |Shibari | Size DifferenceCastiel is a slave, a slave who tried to escape to Canada and was caught near he border, a slave who is tied down in a truck to be taken to a rehabilitation facility to be punished and retrained. Slaves that go into those palces don't tend to come out in one piece. Shoved out of the truck, he meets his handler; Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

He’d been so close. So close, and it didn’t matter. He’d been caught. It didn’t matter how far he’d gone. He’d been bagged, and nothing he did mattered. He’d never get another chance at crossing the border.

No slave ever did.

The thick black material stretched around his face was slowly getting soaked with his spit; making it stick to his nose: making it even harder to breathe. Cas knew that the longer the truck drove, the more he'd drool around the thing they’d shoved in his mouth and tied off behind his head, and the harder it would get. It was probably just a ball-gag, government issue and deemed safe for slave use. But it made his jaw ache nonetheless.

“All right, get em out!”

The truck screeched to a halt, and the thumping of feet echoed around the hold. Screams all around him tolf him his fellow escapees were being taken off the truck. It was all too sudden and too loud to know when they’d reach him. He oucld only lie where they'd chained him, and wait.

Hands grabbed at his chilled skin, unclipping the chains around his waist and wrists from the rings on the floor; making him jump in startled fear. Upright, shoved into action. He'd walk or they'd hurt him ... bad. The bag stayed in place, so he had no idea when he’d stop stumbling on rough metal; where the floor would end.

With his hands chained in front of his stomach, and his ankles barely given any leeway, there was no way from him to break his fall when they shoved him out into thin air. Cas was sure his heart stopped during the few seconds of freefall, knowing full well the only reason he didn’t piss himself when hands caught him was dehydration.

Whoever had plucked him from the sky dumped him on the grounds and moved away. castiel had no choice but to follow. the trainer was using the chain around his neck to drag him away rather than give him the chance to walk. Head forced high, he couldn’t use his hands to stabilize himself, and had to scoot forward on his knees as fast as he could regardless of sharp gravel to keep from choking. The sweet mercy of concrete flooring warred with the knowledge that he was entering a retraining facility.

No slave came out of here whole.

Sensors beeped, and doors screeched open, but the guy that was dragging him never lost a stride. By their speed, Castiel guessed that he had long legs. All it really meant, was that it made it even harder to keep up with him.

Reaching his cell sparked another weird duality of emotions. He was glad that there would be no more 'running' on his knees while he was being choked, but the lock clicking into place foretold no rest or peace.

The trainer grabbed the bag, pushing and pulling roughly at his head to get at the combination lock Castiel couldn’t see or reach. Tumblers clicked as they rolled into place, the pressure aorund his enck loosening when the lock fell away. He whimpered around the gag when some of his hair was pulled up along with the blinding bag.

Castiel closed his eyes.

With the bag gone, he’d get to breathe again. But he’d see where he was, and sometimes it was nicer to be in the dark.

Not that he’d get a say.

Slaves never did.

“Eyes down.”

Order one was easy to follow at least. Castiel made sure his eyes were trained on where he knew the floor to be as the wet cloth slipped off of his head. Breathing was easier, but the air seemed suddenly cold in comparison of the humid heat that had built up inside the bag. The lights were harsh. Blinding him even as he looked down; away from them and the man above him. He tried to focus on the stained concrete; fighting the urge to look around. It didn’t look like old blood, but then … what did blood look like after it’s seeped into concrete and scrubbed with an industrial cleaner? What else stained concrete?

“You will address me as sir.”

Cas nodded. Eyes down. Eyes down. Eyes down.

He flinched when rough fingers tugged at the strap at the back of his head. Getting the gag out was good only in theory. With his mouth free, he'd be expected to answer questions. Questions that had correct answers he didn't yet know.

And what if they took his teeth? What if they took his tongue?

The gag snagged behind his teeth, pain blooming in his jaw as the trainer tugged it out without any regard for how long he’d been wearing it. The silence as he tried to gently close it was deafening.

The crack of an enormous palm slapping across his cheek broke the tension spectacularly. So much for closing his mouth gently. Cas stared at the floor, hands still chained to his waist and useless, as blood and spit dribbled from his freshly split lip. His pained, hitched breaths filled the room. It sounded worse than the silence.

“You'll learn to listen, toy.”

It clicked. The trainer hadn't just told him something. It had been an order.

“Yes, sir.”

Cas was glad he hadn't bitten his tongue at least. A swollen lip was easy to deal with. Easier, at least, than a swollen tongue.

“Do you know where you are, toy?”

He didn't have a clue. Not too far from the border probably. They'd driven for a good long time, but nowhere near long enough to be days south.

“No, sir.”

“Do you know why you are here, toy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Slaves that got caught were retrained. Paraded out in front of others as a warning.

“Why are you here, toy?”

Castiel hung his head, a long string of blood swinging over to catch on his thigh. He'd been so close. So. So close. But it didn't matter. They might as well have caught him right out the door.

Ashamed of his failure, he stayed quiet. Expecting another slap, really. The hands in his hair and collar were unexpected. Dragging him to the side.

The second he spotted the pool, Cas knew what was coming. It looked like a bathtub, if maybe a bit smaller, had been sunk into the floor. Just a deep, white pit filled to the brim with water. His token struggle meant nothing.

Body in a long line in between the trainer’s feet, head under the surface, Cas thrashed.

Air! He needed air. Needed to breathe. Shouldn't gasp in a lungful of water. He _had_ to wait it out.

The man held him under for longer than Cas had expected. So long, he'd surely pass out in a second or two. Black spots grew larger and larger in his watery world. A loud, high beep echoed through his skull.

The hand holding him under dragged him up. White porcelain making way for bright lights and concrete again.

He got two rasping breaths in before he was pushed under again. The darkness hadn't been give the time to dissipate. Cas could hear his own heart going crazy somewhere around his ears, drowning out the sound of his waterlogged screams.

Up, back arched cruelly under the strain on his neck and the boot on his back.

This time the man let him breathe. Long enough that the dizziness mostly passed. Long enough for Cas to realize he no longer remembered the question.

Not that it mattered. The trainer shoved him down without any warning or prompts. The shackles around his ankles dug deep bruises into the skin as he kicked uselessly. Weak and exhausted even before he was caught, they might as well have dragged him here without any chains.

Lungs burning, consciousness slipping sideways, he was pulled up again. Shoved to the side and left to experience the pain of filling empty lungs on his own. The water was cold, but Castiel's body was chilled to the bone with exhaustion and fear.

He didn't know the question.

He didn't know the question, so he couldn't answer. He couldn't answer, and he'd just been shown the consequences of such a foolish action.

“Why are you here, toy?”

The answer fell from his frozen, tingling lips faster than any words ever had. Syllables crowding his throat to spit out his ugly truth.

“I’m … I'm here to be retrained because … because I … I tried to run away, s_sir.”

The trainer grabbed his hair again, angling his head back sharply once more.

“And how do toys answer questions?”

“Promptly, sir. Promptly.”

“Remembered it.”

Cas started crying, talty tears disappearing into the water running down his face.

“Yes, sir.”

It was his first good look at the other man. No, not a man. A giant. Long hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Cas's oxygen deprived brain couldn't decide on his eye colour, but he looked pissed. Trainers rarely looked pleased.

It was worse when they looked like they were having fun.

“Moving on.”

Cas barely had the chance to find his bearings as the giant let go of his head, and grabbed the short chain in between his ankles instead. Using it to drag him backwards; hands chafing terribly under his own weight. By the time he'd managed to roll onto his back, they'd reached the wall. It wasn't completely full of terrible things, but there were plenty of implements hung there for him to stare up at and fear.

Whips. Crops. Floggers of every size and shape. Canes. Clamps. Gags. Hoods. Even knives.

Castiel yelped, hands still useless at his waist, as he was hauled up by his legs, ankles locked into stocks so quickly is could not he the first time the trainer had done the deed. Legs straight, back bent, and shoulders balanced precariously on the floor. It left him with barely enough of a base to balance on and not ruin his ankles for ever. More than enough of a bend that he could see exactly what the other man picked off the wall.

A cane.

Castiel screamed. And he kept screaming.

As long as the trainer rained down stinging blows that burned like fire, he screamed. Barely taking the time to breathe in. The pain forced his lungs to empty themselves, over and over. And the trainer - sir - didn’t slow down. Thin whippy cane flicked effortlessly down across his exposed feet.

Unlike his back, his soles never seemed to become numb. Each strike as fresh and painful as the last.

Or worse than the last if it happened to overlap. Small crosses turning into pinpricks of absolute agony.

There were bruises all around his waist and wrists now too. The chain keeping them in place jerking with each hit, as his hands tried desperately to reach for his feet; to protect them; shield them, free them. He couldn’t even feel his ankles, jerking like mad in the wooden stocks with nowhere to go.

There was a pattern, Cas realized through the torment. The cane whipped neatly across both feet at once, starting at the heel and working its way steadily towards his toes. Raining down blistering torture as it went … and then went back.

The only break he got was when the man walked around him to start over from the other side. Lungs burning and throat on fire as he tried to beg for mercy.

It still hurt just as bad.

It only stopped when his voice eventually gave out, and his tears dried up. Cas didn’t know if his voice breaking was the reason the punishment ended, or if he’d magically managed to tear his vocal chords right as they reached the end.

The stocks clicked open, and his legs dropped in a heap. Cas did not notice.

He'd crawled into his own head in sheer desperation.

The trainer had dragged him halfway to the centre of the room before one foot tipped far enough that its sole touched concrete. Like a livewire, it jolted him back into consciousness. Unforgiving reality flooding back in one terrible wave. When the giant dropped him, he was a whimpering mess, and so so happy to be left lying on the floor. He could barely open his eyes to watch the trainer move around the room picking up other things as he put the cane back on the wall.

The small black bottle dropped by his side scared him as much as anything else had today. Running on nothing more than the fumes of adrenaline he couldn't stop man from grabbing his feet once more. Pained breaths and strangled sounds all he could hurl at his captor.

Thankfully all he seem to want to do was take off the cuffs. A clear indication of his helplessness. They didn’t think he wouldn’t run, they _knew_ he couldn’t.

Bruises were already blooming all over his ankles, and more would appear over time. If they thought to injure his knees he wouldn’t be moving at all.

Cas lost some time in the delirious haze of fire crawling up his legs, but the man was suddenly at his hands. Tugging at the chain, and the tears started again. The thought that his hands might be caned in the same way was too terrible to be true.

Hysteria bloomed. His entire body was shaking. Paralyzed with fear and unable to run, it could only spasm. Why drag him away from the now hated stocks if he’d have to go back in anyway? His throat screamed back at him when he tried to shout.

“Take the disinfectant, douse your feet with it.”

Castiel looked from the trainer to his feet, and then to the bottle. Disinfectant. He _was_ bleeding. Bleeding meant open wounds. Disinfectant meant he wouldn’t be losing his feet to fever.

Shaking, he curled his hands towards the bottle, only then realising that his hands had been unlocked from the chain around his waist. He was still cuffed, but he could move now; the chain around his waist clinking loosely as a reminder of how easily he could be rendered immobile.

Inches away from the plastic bottle - never glass, no one gave a slave glass - he froze. It would hurt. His feet radiated agony, and while the medicine would clean the wounds the wounds would not appreciate the attention.

It took willpower to move his hand. He _needed_ to do this. If only because he’d been ordered to do so.

The journey to the pool was unexpected and even more terrifying now that he knew what was coming.

Too slow. Too slow.

Air streamed across his face in a rush of bubbles as he screamed into the cold water. His raw throat overpowered by the need to escape the hand holding him down. The shackles around his wrists dug into his chest, trapped there by the weight of the trainer’s knee.

The knee stayed put even as he was given the chance to breathe. Once. Twice. Then down again. Barely recovered enough to pull in a third breath before he was dunked. Desperation made him claw at the concrete. Made his feet kick.

He couldn’t decide which pain was worse. Throat, lungs, and feet warring for attention.

The pain made him lose focus. Made him forget how important it was to hold his breath. The trainer might be counting, unconcerned with how much air his slave had already lost. But the fire didn’t care, forcing him to expel the last of his reserves in useless thrashing.

Water sluiced off his face as he tried to breathe and beg at the same time. Miserably failing at both even as he tried to remember why he was being punished.

Sticking to his earlier pattern, the trainer pushed him under a third time. Holding firm till Cas stopped struggling. It wasn’t a conscious decision, and it took awhile for life to slip back into his still frame.

Blinking sluggishly, at the bottle that was dropped in front of his face till thoughts and reason struck, Cas _breathed_ ; hitched, pained pulls he had to force deeper than his ribs wanted to let him. Frantic, he grabbed for the disinfectant. Terror tearing at his nerves when the cap didn’t just unscrew. Trying again, he cast pleading eyes up at the man towering above him. Hoping against hope that he’d be given enough time to actually obey now that he was actively trying to.

The medicine burned like hellfire on the cuts, but all he could managed was a pained hiss of air. He wasn’t quiet, no, but the crackle of his pained throat wouldn’t impress a soul. Lungs trying their best to scream around clenched teeth and white knuckles wrapped desperately around the instrument of his newest toruture.

It wasn’t better than drowning. But it was better than drowning over and over again till he did this anyway.

The trainer didn’t comment. Didn’t praise his obedience, or taunt him with his delayed torment. He just watched. Arms crossed as he stood tall. Startling him silly by grabbing the bottle when he’d thoroughly coated both his feet in the potent smelling liquid.

“Pick a corner.”

Cas didn’t know what the corner would mean, but he obeyed. Heading as far away from the stocks as he could go and squeezing his chilled form into the ninety degree angle. It left his aching feet pointed out from his body. Exposed. Weak.

Eyes trained on the wall, Cas only realised he’d been left alone when the heavy lock on the door clicked shut again.

The lights stayed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Check back tomorrow, for ... shower/bath!! The dark clouds are lifting! Time for some soothing aftercare.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has been in Sam's charge for a good long while now, time for a quick check-in?

It was cowering in one of the corners when the door opened again. It didn't know how long it had been left alone, let alone how long it had been in the room. It was never left in the dark. 

Perpetual light, and perpetual pain. No sleep. No rest.  _ Never  _ any rest.

God it wanted to rest.

It didn't matter what it did. Obedience brought it pain. Disobedience brought it pain. Existing … existing brought it pain. 

It might as well be dead. A corpse that happened to still be breathing.

The trainer walked closer. It could hear the rhythmic thump of the giant man’s boots on the concrete. Closer and closer. Bringing pain.

It knew he was bringing pain.

The trainer - sir, always sir, never forget sir - never brought him anything else. Food was scarce, and never without its humiliating horrifying companions. The toy did not look forward to being fed, no matter how hungry it got.

And water … it feared water.

It’s whole life was pain. No matter what it did. 

It was never pleasing enough to be spared. Never. 

"Come here toy."

It flinched curling tighter into itself. A small ball of misery clawing at the wall to try and hide. It didn't want to come. Any time spent at the man's mercy was terrible. Terrible. So terrible.

It was crying. 

It could see the smudges it made on the wall when it turned its head, hoping it could be forced through the concrete. It didn't care what was on the other side, only that it wasn't  _ here  _ anymore. Writhing in a corner and wishing it would just finish dying.

"One."

It screamed. High. Loud. Pained. The trainer hadn't touched it yet, but numbers meant pain. Higher numbers meant more and more and more. And maybe if it screamed now, it would be enough. 

Maybe it wouldn't be whipped. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be choked, or beaten, or drowned.

Maybe its spirit would slip out with the last of the air and leave its body behind for the trainer to use.

The scream petered out into a terrified hitching whine, and it could still feel its fingers rasping across the tiny porous surface of the concrete. It never managed to leave.

"Two."

Terror made it abandon the terrible hiding place. Limbs twitching and tangling like a broken doll that had had most of its strings snipped. But it moved. It  _ had  _ to move. It had to obey, even if it didn't matter.

"Three."

Not fast enough. Never fast enough. Never. Never. Never.

"Four."

The position it was meant to take changed more often than it could count. It had to guess. A twisted game of roulette that was set against it. Rigged in the trainer's favour. It guessed. It knelt. Head bowed to the floor, hands behind its back.

"Five. Took you long enough."

Never good enough. Never fast enough. Never. Never. Never enough.

"Yes, sir."

Its voice hurt. Could a voice hurt? 

Its throat hurt. 

Vocal cords ripped out and flogged, then stuffed back inside his throat to rub like sandpaper. 

"Any longer and you'd have needed another bath."

It whimpered, cowering even lower to the floor at the reminder. The trainer put a foot on its head, pressing down, but not with all of his weight. It wished it would. The trainer was large. Large and strong. Strong enough to make its skull split. Strong enough to drag him over to the hated bath and …

"Yes, sir."

"Better than your last session."

Better?

"See that it keeps improving, toy."

It screamed, trapped under the trainers foot as he caned it. The unseen stick rained down on its exposed ass. Unable to pull away, head trapped and staining the concrete floor as its skin tried to move, the toy grabbed its wrist hard enough to deepen the perpetual blue splotches that encircled them. It wasn’t allowed to try and shield itself.

The punishment toys got for trying to negate the damage sir was doing was worse than this. So much worse.

“What does a toy do when it is called?”

Sir never raised his voice. He knew his toy was always listening, and if it wasn’t … it shuddered. Gasping for air when the lashes paused. A space to answer.

“It comes, sir.”

The lashes started up again, the second he’d answered. No time to breathe, no air to scream. Sir continued.

“Correct. What does a toy get when it’s too slow?”

This time there was no pause. No room for gasping breaths. It had to find sir’s rhythm and work through the pain.

“It gets punished, sir.”

“Correct.”

There were no more questions, just pain. It cried and screamed till it stopped. It was so overcome that it didn’t know which ended first, the fire, or his voice.

“Sit up.”

It obeyed s fast as it could, fearful that it’s best would be found lacking. 

Not fast enough. 

Never fast enough.

“On your heels. Sit.”

It sat, weight resting fully on its freshly whipped skin. But it was a dull pressure, way better than the cane. 

“Now suck.”

Sir offered the toy his dick, and it surged forward to get it in its mouth. 

It rarely got punished while it was servicing sir, and it worked hard to make its trainer feel good. 

“Obedient. Good.” 

There was a hand in its hair. Guiding it.

“Deeper.” 

It let the hand push him forward. Choking on dick was so much better than choking on its own spit as it screamed … or drowning. It hung there, eyes sliding shut till its fingers twitched and his lungs screamed; docile and broken. 

“What are you?”

Its eyes didn’t want to focus right, but it didn’t need to see to answer.

“A toy, sir.”

“And what does a toy do?”

“It obeys, sir.”

It was pulled closer again, and it sucked. It licked, it drooled, it hummed, and moaned because its life very much depended on it.

“Hands behind your back, toy.”

It didn’t stop sucking, threading it’s fingers around the chain around its waist. 

“Good. Now I don’t have to waste my time breaking your fingers.”

It whimpered, bobbing its head exactly like it remembered sir liking. It also remembered the dull ache that had permeated his entire hand for weeks. It couldn’t be completely sure about the timespan, but it had been long … it hadn’t taken sir long to break him. 

“Second thought, start fingering yourself open. Gonna spend some quality time with my toy today.”

It nodded, unable to speak with its mouth full. As it dragged a finger across the sluggishly bleeding whip marks that criss crossed its ass, it was strangely thankful that it had been whipped hard enough to bleed. At least now it had lube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.


End file.
